


When He Was Gone

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Can Be Read As Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Exploring John's emotions, Feels, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, John takes Sherlock flowers, John visits Sherlock's grave, John's Reichenbach Feels, Mary Morstan (mention) - Freeform, Memories, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock doesn't really appreciate flowers, Short One Shot, description, graveyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:19:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visits Sherlock's grave for the first time since the funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When He Was Gone

It was much harder than it should have been to walk back into the graveyard.

It wasn’t the sudden reminder of his best friend that was painful, nor was it the rush of memories that came with the creaking of the wrought iron gate.

John was used to those.

No. The thing that made those first few steps so difficult was less to do with the suffocating fog of sadness and memories that awaited him at the gate to the graveyard, and more caused by the painful awareness that he was completely alone.

The solitary crunch of his footsteps on the gravel only reminded John of his isolation. The ghost of his best friend drifted alongside him, a frosty breath hurrying him along, real enough that John had to glance over his shoulder to confirm that there really was no one else in the graveyard.

A sleepy willow swayed gently in the same breeze. John's only company was buried six feet below him.

Instead, he weaved his own path in amongst the gravestones. A mixture of dew and fresh rainwater brushed off around his ankles as he picked his way carefully between wilting bunches of flowers and water-stained photos.

Sherlock’s gravestone stood a little way from the others. John stopped when he saw it, glittering darkly in contrast to the bright green of the uncut grass. It looked just the same as it had on the day of the funeral. Someone had been taking care of it. _As if Sherlock Holmes would let his grave get mucky_ , John thought with a smile. _He_ _’d probably come back from the dead just to make sure he hadn_ _’t been forgotten._

John swapped the flowers to his other hand as he shifted his weight uncertainly causing the cellophane to rustle and break the silence that had settled again. He took a step towards the memorial, not quite sure what to do.

Now that he was here, he didn’t know how to start. There were so many things he needed to say; thoughts that had been haunting him ever since he had failed to find a pulse in the body on the pavement.

He laid the flowers by the grave, carefully stooping over and placing them beside the headstone. The presence of Sherlock’s body below his feet was comforting but sickening at the same time. He hadn’t been this close to Sherlock for a long time.

For a while John just stood there, content with the silence and considering all the things he had to tell Sherlock. Everything seemed insignificant; selfish; w _rong_. He wanted to mention Mary, even though it seemed too soon and he didn’t want to accept the fact that she was fast replacing Sherlock as the person his world revolved around. He wanted to talk about himself, and how his life had been turned upside down, and the way that it had taken this for him to realise just how important Sherlock had been to him.

None of these thoughts could be strung into sentences. John found himself staring at the gold lettering and suddenly understanding why Sherlock had found his attempts at poetry so amusing.

Eventually the silence and loneliness threatened to crush him and he spoke. “I brought you flowers.”

There was a pause and then he started again, even if only to drown out the gentle breaths of the wind. “I don’t know why. I thought you might appreciate them.”

It wasn’t something he’d have done when Sherlock was alive, and flowers still didn’t seem right.

_“I thought you might appreciate them._ _”_

_“Are they... flowers?_ _”_

_“Yes._ _” John replies simply._ _“For you._ _”_

_Sherlock’s response is tentative._ _“...Thank you._ _” His brow creases and John can’t help but smile. Sherlock obviously doesn’t understand. He feels a stab of guilty triumph as he realises that he has stumped the great Sherlock Holmes._

And then John was laughing at the reminder of how out-of-touch Sherlock was with human tradition. Sentiment just hadn’t made sense to him.

It seemed wrong to laugh, especially in the middle of a graveyard. In that moment he didn’t care. The laughter came as unexpected relief, like rain after months of restless, stormy skies.

 

_“What do I do with them?”_

_“Put them in a vase. Look at them. Admire them.”_

_“John, as kind as your gesture is, I do not admire a bunch of slowly dying plants. I tend to set my ambitions higher than that. I don’t plan to sit around and wait for death to come for me; I intend to reach out for death when my time comes. Watching these wither on the mantelpiece is just a reminder of how little choice I have in the matter.”_

 

Suddenly there were tears running down his face and the moment of joy was a mile away. The Sherlock he remembered ran so true to the man he had used to know that just the sound of his voice in John’s mind felt like a punch to the gut.

The flowers reminded John that the fall was the way that his friend had always been destined to die. It was the way he had always lived- direct, impulsive, and with little thought for the people who he left behind.

“I hate you,” he muttered, “and I hate myself for ever caring about you.”

John paced up and down by the grave. “I hate you for leaving me behind. I hate you for changing me. I hate you for finding my potential and then taking it away.”

He paused, facing the headstone. “It was an honour, Sherlock Holmes. An honour. And I want you to know that the city of London doesn’t miss you nearly as much as I do.”

The taste of salt on his lips made him realise that this was the only time he had cried about his friend’s death. Somehow the tangible evidence of his emotions made everything more real, and suddenly easier to accept. For the first time John started to believe that it was possible to move on- at least, as much as anyone could move on from knowing a man like Sherlock.

It wasn’t going to be an easy process; the time since the funeral had taught him that. But maybe it could be done. Maybe John could go on living the life that Sherlock deserved to, and maybe he would learn how to function properly again. John would prove him wrong.

His final gesture was a military salute- the silent promise, _“I’ll be back.”_


End file.
